


silver springs

by peachesandlesbians



Series: if music be the food of love, play on [2]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt No Comfort, Not A Happy Ending, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24156397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachesandlesbians/pseuds/peachesandlesbians
Summary: Miranda and Andy think about Paris and each other.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Series: if music be the food of love, play on [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1739026
Comments: 11
Kudos: 51





	silver springs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elle_nic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_nic/gifts).



> so, some quick things. this is for elle_nic because i distinctly remember her also writing a fleetwood-mac inspired fic, and we stan good taste! second, this is angsty and there is not a happy ending. remember when i said my fics would always end happily? yeah, me too ..... anyway, this is inspired by fleetwood mac's "silver springs" which goes SO fucking hard. also i changed some of the lyrics lmao. if y'all want to yell at me, my tumblr is also peachesandlesbians. enjoy.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eDwi-8n054s

_You could be my silver spring_

_Blue-green colors flashing_

_I would be your only dream_

_Your shining autumn ocean crashing_

_“Everybody wants to be us.”_ That was what Miranda said that drove Andrea away. Sitting alone in her hotel room, she blankly stares at her empty glass of scotch. The brand the hotel provided is horrid, but it has enough bite to stop the thoughts that swirl around in her head. _Why?_ is one such thought. What was so bad about being a team with her?

For one brief moment, Miranda closes her eyes and dreams. She had such a vivid imagination when she was younger. Surrounded by dirt and squalor, Miranda needed something to make her world bloom with colour. So, she created magazine covers in her head. All of her free time was spent over every detail, adjusting what she didn’t deem acceptable. If the font was too big, she changed it. If the model’s foot was an inch too much to the right, she changed it. If there was too much black, she changed it. If nothing was working, she started from scratch. It set a perfect standard for her work life. 

But this time with Andrea, everything is crystal-clear, perfect on the first try. Andrea showed such great promise, so she would have completed the rest of her tenure. She wanted to be a journalist, but she also could have continued with fashion. Perhaps Andrea would be moved to a different department, along with Nigel. They would have both enjoyed that, wouldn’t they? Then, when the time was right, Miranda would gladly hand _Runway_ to Andrea. She would’ve given her the world. 

But if Andrea made up her mind to continue pursuing her writing, she would find herself with offers from _Rolling Stone_ , the _New York Times_ , or maybe _Harper’s_. They would’ve kept in touch, emailing frequently until …

Miranda snaps out of it with a growing blush, looking around the room as if some unknown spectator is quietly observing her innermost desires. Obviously, there’s no one there. 

A drink. She needs another drink. 

_Oh, what’s the issue?_ she scolds herself. _It’s just a silly old woman’s fantasy._

Until Andrea asked her out to dinner. And Miranda would have said yes, of course. She would be pleasantly surprised by Andrea’s choice—a quaint, relatively unknown restaurant with a steak delicious enough to Smith & Wollensky. They would have such a wonderful time, with Andrea using all her potential to become an excellent dining partner, among other things. 

They would go on more dates, and Andrea would meet her children again, but this time they would be a family. They would be happy. 

But none of that would come true. The emptiness of Miranda’s glare turns to anger. Hot, blazing fury that breaks her Ice Queen persona. In one swift move, she tosses the glass to the side and stalks to her bathroom. Any other room besides that one. Where Andrea kneeled in front of her, with that wounded expression, with those damn reassurances. Where is she now when Miranda needs her?

Miranda grips the edge of her sink, glaring at the mirror—at herself. Was her face the final blow that made Andrea leave? What other reason was there?

She moves again, running from her own shadow, and stumbles to bed, not bothering to get under the covers. Exhaustion takes her, and she goes with willing arms, ready to dream about Andrea once again. If dreams are the only way they can meet again, Miranda will live for the moment she falls asleep. And when she wakes, she will cry out and try to bring Andrea into her arms, doomed to always chase her and never find her. 

_So I begin not to love you_

_Turn around, see me running_

_I say I loved you months ago_

_But tell myself you never loved me, no_

The next morning, Miranda’s phone startles her out of sleep. For one glorious moment, she expects to see Andrea’s name but when she sees Emily’s, her heart breaks all over again.

“What?” she snarls. 

She doesn’t need to see Emily to know she’s already trembling. “S-Sorry for disturbing you. Miranda, but Andy informed me that she, ah, gave notice. I have another assistant flying to you right now, and I’ve …”

Miranda tunes Emily out. She has to at “she gave notice.” Is that what assistants are calling it these days? When they leave their boss who loves them during the busiest time of the year? Is _that_ giving notice? 

“Fine,” Miranda snaps when a beat of silence goes on for too long. “Now see what you can do with my schedule and call me later.” 

She hangs up before she can hear Emily’s reply, leaving her alone with the quiet as her company. It’s not too bad. She can get drunk again and try not to think about Andrea.

All the beauty and joy of Paris is sucked out, all thanks to Andrea. She has a show to attend, of course, but she can’t even muster up the excitement fo that. That damn woman. The misery from last night bleeds away and in its place is anger. Who gives her lowly ex-assistant the right to take her happiness from her? 

Miranda growls, getting up to pace. If Andrea Sachs wants to toy with her heartstrings, then she’ll stop having a heart. While it was true Miranda loved that foolish woman months ago, that blaze of love was over. Effective now. That was for the best. Andrea would have never loved her in the future—she didn’t even love her now. Those lingering glances Miranda caught were just ... an objective appreciation for beauty, not her in particular. Yes, that was it. 

Miranda sighs, slumping back into bed. Just a short crush, like two passing ships at night. That’s all her feelings are.

_Did you say that he’s handsome?_

_And did you say that he loves you?_

_Baby, I don't want to know_

_Oh no, and can you tell me was it worth it?_

_Baby, I don't want to know_

The numbness from Paris comes rushing back while Miranda sits in her office, looking at _that_. The email from Gregory Hill, potentially Andrea’s new boss at the _New York Mirror_. It’s hardly the pinnacle of journalism. Andrea could have done better. 

Miranda’s shoulders sag. She could’ve helped Andrea achieve much more.

She reads the email for the sixteenth time since getting it, trying to ignore the feelings it dredges up. But her efforts fail, and everything that has to do with Andrea comes crashing back into her orbit.

_Oh, please, no. I already dream of you at night._ She makes a wild plea to Andrea, the Andrea that lingered in her subconscious, haunting her. _Can’t you leave me alone during the day?_

Memories come rushing back, some Miranda cherishes and others she would rather erase. Like …

Miranda slowly straightens in her chair. Like that little cook boy. What was his name? Daniel, Nathaniel? Something like that. 

Whatever his name was, Miranda distinctly remembers Andrea (rightfully) complaining about how arrogant he was, his overgrown facial hair, and his complete unwillingness to understand the sacrifices her job required. 

(She tries to ignore the thought that she would always support Andrea in her career.)

However, there was no mention of cook boy before Paris. So they must have resolved their issues somehow. All the pieces clicked together. Andrea didn’t want to be with her because she already was with cook boy. 

Defeat is something Miranda’s unfamiliar with. After all, she _is_ the longest-serving Editor-in-Chief. But after all these years, how could she forget how it tastes? How could she forget the bitterness, the way it clings to the inside of her mouth, how it makes the rest of her body fall into herself?

Her hands shake. Andrea left her for someone else, and they weren’t even together. How ironic. 

What was it about that idiotic cook boy with the hideous stubble? What could he offer Andrea? Money? Miranda’s sure he made more than Andrea (she did sign her paychecks), but barely enough to cover New York rent. That couldn’t be it. It most definitely wasn’t love either. No one could love Andrea as well as she could. That was the only certainty she knew. So perhaps it was stability. Yes, that must be it. Andrea didn’t want to deal with the press, her girls, the coming out, the age gap, all of that. That’s why she left. 

Miranda leans back and sighs. Although she has somewhat of an explanation, it doesn’t make sense. 

“Why doesn’t it make sense?” she whispers to the empty room.

“Did you need anything, Miranda?” Her second assistant comes rushing into her office, mistakenly thinking Miranda needs her. But she doesn’t need this halfwit whose name she can’t remember.

She needs Andrea. 

“Get out. Bore someone else with your questions.” Miranda’s scowl sends her minion running. Good. The quiet helps her think, which is a blessing and a curse. No matter how hard she looks at the situation, there are no answers to be found. And frankly, she’s not sure she even wants one.

After all, is _I left you for someone else_ supposed to give her closure? Solace? Nothing would heal her heart, so why bother trying?

* * *

_I follow you down until the sound_

_Of my voice will haunt you_

_(Give me just a chance)_

_You'll never get away from the sound_

_Of the woman that loved you_

_Was I just a fool?_

Andy is pissed. The rational part of her mind tells her she has no right to be, but she isn’t exactly following logic right now. After all, what logical person would leave their boss during Paris Fashion Week, throw the company phone into the fountain, and get on a plane back to New York? Oh, and fall in love with said boss.

No one, that’s who. No one except her dumb self. 

Andy tugs at her hair, scowling at the chair across from her. Christ, Miranda was so infuriating! Seeing her so small in her grey robe, makeup removed, with tear streaks still visible drew Andy to her. All she wanted to do was wipe away those tears and embrace her. But of course, the great Miranda Priestly could never accept comfort from a commoner! 

The way Miranda dismissed Andy nags at her more than anything. This was the problem with getting close to her. The line between personal and professional blurred. All the late-night talks at the townhouse, the quiet companionship they shared in the car, the small smiles Miranda threw her way, it all meant nothing. She should’ve just done her job like Miranda ordered. 

It’s all Andy’s fault, really. She shouldn’t have fallen in love with Miranda. Only a fool would.

But now that she’s back in New York, it’s time to pick herself back up and go job-hunting. It’s a good way to get her mind off Miranda because thinking about her is all Andy’s been doing. That, and mulling over the “what if’s.” Andy had a lot of love to give, and no one to give it to, especially to Miranda.

So. Get a starter job, then work her way up. Make a name for herself and _maybe_ hope that Miranda notices and remembers the woman who loves her. 

_Time cast a spell on you_

_But you won't forget me_

_I know I could have loved you_

_But you would not let me_

Andy follows her plan pretty well, surprisingly. She gets a job at the New York Mirror vis-à-vis Miranda’s recommendation (which she would rather not think about) and keeps her head down. She does good work, but there’s an aching void in her heart that even writing can’t fill. She’s not going to say why it is. She won’t. No way in—

It’s because of Miranda.

Goddamnit. 

Every time her thoughts drift to her, Andy concentrates on reciting some of her favourite lines of poetry or literature. It usually distracts her, but it hasn’t worked for the past week. Maybe her subconscious knows she’s sad. Because she _is_.

There’s no other word for how she feels. It’s not anger; she’s not angry anymore. She got rid of that quickly. It’s not misery or despair because she’s still surviving; she’s not being pulled under. Andy’s just sad. 

It’s a quiet type of sad. A sad that settles in her bones with every step she takes. A sad that dulls the food she eats, makes what she reads bland, makes getting up in the mornings wearisome. A sad that won’t go away no matter how hard she tries. A sad that makes her think about the "what if's." 

There is one thing, though, that could help. Miranda. Talking to her, seeing her smile, even just her presence. 

Not only that, but there are so many questions she needs Miranda to answer. Maybe one day she can ask them. She can hope. _What is so bad about being loved?_

_Why did you not let me love you?_

_Don’t you want to be loved? By me?_

And still, she wishes for the answer to one specific question. _Did you ever think of me?_

She hopes against hope Miranda will reply: _No, I dreamt of you._

  
  



End file.
